by Téa Smith
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I now understand what the song ‘Cry Me a River’ means. It’s definitely referring to the snot. After sobbing, numb for 20 minutes after that call.

A lot of crying. And a lot of snot.

And I sit here, half an hour after that call, at 3:30am, knowing that I did everything I possibly could (and then some), and my only preoccupying thought was that my Grandmother died alone.

This is always the risk when you leave the hospice for the night — and I had had this discussion with the nurse today. I thought I had till morning, but I also was prepared for the call. I had told the nurse that I had had my quality time with my Grandma. My life had come to a complete standstill for the last 7 and a half weeks — I have held her, medicated her, fed her, made her laugh, and the majority of me feels OK.

But, she died alone.

I actually wasn’t prepared for that call at all. I lied.

Grief most certainly comes in waves, and even though now it’s only been 45 minutes I have had four separate waves of grief and feel another one coming. Writing this blog post, trying to use a different part of my brain, is the only thing stopping it.

Of course, I am completely numb. My hands are shaking and I am so overwhelmed by the prospect of organising a funeral for the single biggest influence in my life, where only five people are likely to show up because, unfortunately, sometimes a person’s legacy lies in just one person who truly got them.

And all I can hope, as the next wave of sobbing and snot comes, is that I did her proud. And that I can continue to carry with me the humility, the hard work and the kindness that she taught me. And also to not put up with shit. Definitely with the not putting up with shit part.

Thanks to everyone who has been there for me. This post is not so much about being “public” as it is to get it all out of the way so I can grieve in private. But thank you for your kind words and support. I owe you all drinks when this is all over.

Hey there, I'm Téa

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